The thin mountain air bit at their cheeks as they climbed the winding trail high into the Peruvian Andes.
Snow-capped peaks pierced a sky so blue it felt almost translucent, and the ruins of an ancient citadel clung to the ridge ahead, its grey stone walls glowing gold in the afternoon sun.
Zhang Jiuxuan paused to catch his breath, the two seals resting warm against his chest.
“This mountain holds the heart of the southern continent’s dragon vein.
For centuries, it was guarded by those who knew the land speaks in slow, quiet ways.” Lin Weiyao unfolded a satellite map marked with faint dark spots.
“The Black Cross arrived here nearly a century ago.
They told local elders they wanted to ‘preserve the old wisdom’—then secretly carved curse marks into every major temple and altar, slowly draining the mountain’s strength.” Huo Yunxi pointed to a cluster of massive stone figures lining the path ahead—giant carved warriors, their faces stern, their hands resting on stone spears.
“These are the mountain’s own guardians.
The curse marks are wrapped around their ankles, holding them bound.” As they drew closer, the ground rumbled.
The stone guardians shifted, their eyes glowing dull red, and they stepped forward to block the way.
The earth shook with every heavy step they took.
“They don’t attack out of malice,” Zhang Jiuxuan said.
“They attack because they are forced to.” He walked straight toward the largest guardian, ignoring the shadow that fell over him.
He held up both seals, and golden light spilled over the stone surface, tracing the twisted black marks wrapped around its legs.
“Your duty is to watch over this high place,” he called up to it.
“Not to turn it away from those who belong here.” The guardian paused.
Its red glow flickered.
For a long moment, it stood still, as if fighting against invisible chains.
Then slowly, the black marks cracked and crumbled away.
The red light faded to warm amber, and the great stone warrior stepped aside, bowing its head in respect.
One by one, all the other guardians followed, clearing the path completely.
At the very top of the citadel stood a single stone altar, its surface carved with symbols that glowed faint purple.
Around it knelt a dozen figures in dark robes, chanting in harsh tones, their hands pressed to the stone to feed the curse.
When they saw Zhang Jiuxuan, they scrambled to their feet, drawing daggers and shadow-woven staves.
“Foreign thief!” their leader shouted.
“This mountain’s power belongs to the Order!
It will be carried across the sea to where it can be ‘properly used’!” “The mountain’s power belongs to the mountain,” Zhang Jiuxuan said firmly.
“And to the people who have lived here since the first stone was laid.
You do not get to decide where it goes.” He slammed the seals together.
A wave of golden light rolled over the altar.
The purple symbols shattered.
The robed figures’ weapons dissolved into mist, and they collapsed to their knees, stripped of the stolen magic they had wielded.
Zhang Jiuxuan placed his palm on the altar.
The stone hummed, and warm energy spread outward, sinking deep into the rock and soil below.
“The flow is restored,” he said softly.
“No more taking without giving back.” He looked out over the endless mountain ranges stretching toward the horizon, then turned to his companions.
“Next,” he said, “we cross the great desert.
Where the earth remembers every footstep, and every secret buried in the sand.”